


let's start fires for heaven's sake

by Ingu



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Idiots in Love, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Revenge, Translation Available, Treason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 05:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4694144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingu/pseuds/Ingu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I need you to help me steal something,” Napoleon said.</p><p>“It's urgent?”</p><p>Napoleon considered the question. “More or less.”</p><p>There was silence over the line, and then Illya drew a sharp breath. “They’re blackmailing you.”</p><p>(Or the one where Napoleon tries to steal back his freedom, only to find Illya had already stolen his heart.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's start fires for heaven's sake

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this](http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=137600#cmt137600) prompt from the kink meme, which requested for Illya to turn Napoleon. Currently not yet betaed.
> 
> In this world, UNCLE never existed. Both Illya and Napoleon went back to working for their respective agencies, their paths crossing repeatedly over the years. Five years pass, and the end of Napoleon's sentence approaches.
> 
> Chinese translation available [here](http://eki-wo.livejournal.com/9220.html) on LJ or [here](http://www.movietvslash.com/thread-180501-1-1.html) (registration required).

It was never a good idea to begin with. But if Napoleon was a man who always picked the smarter choice when offered with temptation the likes of Illya Kuryakin, he would never be stuck in his current predicament.

 

A predicament that was, after fifteen long years, finally coming to an end.

 

“What do you plan to do? After?” said Illya, awkwardly tracing the jagged ridges of a scar on Napoleon’s arm. He was curled beside Napoleon, bare but for the pale sheets tangled in his legs. Even after five years, he still had trouble showing affection, no matter how much Napoleon knew he craved it.

 

A breeze blew through the open French windows, and the curtains gently lifted. Moonlight spilled across the carpet and over the bed, casting both men into silver.

 

“Well,” Napoleon said, his eyes on the dark ceiling. “There’s only one thing I’m really good at.”

 

There was something about the warm night, the comforting presence of Illya beside him, the pleasant ache in his limbs, that drained all the chaos from Napoleon’s mind. It was a phenomenon he’d stopped being concerned about in Lyon, three and a half years ago, and grew to love in Tunis, a short eighteen months past. These liaisons were dangerous to both of them, but neither of them made any effort to put it to an end.

 

Napoleon simply didn’t want to. And Illya? Illya was his own man.

 

Beside him, Illya paused. “You’re going back to being a thief?”

 

 _A_ thief. Illya still remembered his english articles. Napoleon clearly hadn’t done a thorough enough job.

 

“I don’t know,” Napoleon mused, “Maybe. It’s not as though I have that many options with this kind of skill set.”

 

“You could work in security,” Illya offered, a strange note of petulance in his tone, “Something legitimate, show other people ways they shouldn’t protect things they value.”

 

Napoleon glanced toward Illya, and shifted so he was on his side. They were close enough for Napoleon to count the lashes fringing Illya’s eyes, and the way they shone as they stared at Napoleon made his insides twist with want.

 

“You,” Napoleon said, dragging out the syllable in one long, torturous sound, “Almost sound like you’ve done research.”

 

Illya blinked, a tell that had Napoleon’s face splitting with a smirk. He reached up a hand, and brushed back the sweaty strands of Illya’s hair from his face for no other reason than wanting to touch.

 

“I can’t say it doesn’t sound like a nice life,” Napoleon continued, pretending he hadn’t just caught Illya out in an act of _caring_ , “But I think I’ve made far too many enemies in this career to ever settle down with that sort of life.”

 

Illya deflated, his expression turning thoughtful in a way that made Napoleon want to kiss him again.

 

So that’s what he did.

 

-

 

Later, when they were catching their breath a second time, Illya said with no pretext whatsoever:

 

“You could come join the KGB.”

 

Napoleon’s eyes opened. In his exhaustion, he tried and failed to dredge up the appropriate alarm at Illya’s suggestion.

 

“Your bosses would be the first in line to interrogate me.”

 

Illya fell silent for a suspicious amount of time. Napoleon was on the brink of sleep before he heard Illya’s next murmured words.

 

“You’re a good agent. My superiors would see reason.”

 

“Hm.” Napoleon just reached out and pulled Illya closer, wrapping his arms around the Russian and tucking his chin against his shoulder. “Well, there’s a thought.”

 

Sleep was tugging at his consciousness, and Napoleon gave up the battle.

 

-

 

The next morning, they had breakfast together in the hotel room, and Illya smacked him with his book when Napoleon tried to feed him hated marmalade on toast.

 

That evening, Napoleon snuck into a Mossad drop off point and stole a folder of essential intelligence on a CIA person of interest. By then, Illya was already out of the country, on his way to complete another KGB mission he couldn’t tell Napoleon about.

 

There was two weeks until his sentence was up.

 

-

 

In a CIA office in New York, the fire in Napoleon’s chest sputtered and turned to ice.

 

“The thing is, Solo,” Sanders drawled, in a way that told Napoleon he was taking the maximum amount of pleasure in watching every hint of hope in Napoleon sink into despair, “You’re just too good for us to let go.”

 

The bastards. The fucking bastards. They had played him. Played him like the patsy Napoleon evidently was.

 

“Fifteen years is a long time in this business, and we ain’t gonna find another one as good as you.”

 

They’d lied to him, dangled his freedom like a carrot on a stick and laughed when they saw him racing after it.

 

“So here’s what’s gonna happen, _Cowboy_.”

 

Napoleon flinched, and Sanders bared his teeth in an almost feral grin. Ice took hold in Napoleon veins. Nobody but Illya called him that.

 

“You’ll keep doing as you’re told, like the good dog you are.”

 

A heavy folder landed on the table with a thunk, glossy photographs spilling out from its insides. Most were of him and Illya, and others captured the faces and silhouettes of the anonymous tall, blond haired men Napoleon had found relief in when Illya couldn't be found.

 

Napoleon stared at them, his face a mask of aloofness even as his hands twitched for violence.

 

“How many years do you think this would earn you?” Sanders said, “Sodomy is, the last I checked, still illegal in the United States.”

 

Was this what Illya felt when he had those episodes? Rage riled beneath his skin, tore through his veins, and dug deep into muscle, braying for him to fight. It took every ounce of willpower Napoleon had not to beat the ugly smile off of Sander’s face.

 

“Think of it like an extended sentence,” said Sanders.

 

For fifteen years Napoleon had looked forward to his freedom, took the beatings and the pain, played by the rules of the great game thinking he would still come out on top. But any gambler should’ve known that the house always wins.

“You’re a disgusting man, Napoleon Solo, your mother would be ashamed.”

 

-

 

Two hours after he accepted Sanders' ultimatum, Napoleon called a number from his apartment, and left a very specific food order at a Chinese takeaway.

 

Five days later at 1pm, Napoleon sat down at his favorite bistro for lunch. At 2pm, the payphone across the street began to ring.

 

Napoleon downed the last of his drink, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and left his table, jogging casually across the street to pick up. The receiver’s weight was reassuring in his hand as he pressed it to his ear.

 

“Still alive?” He opened with far less humor than he intended.

 

“Yes,” said Illya after a moment of hesitance, “What’s wrong?”

 

Napoleon heaved as a sigh, his anger surging again at the memory of Sanders' twisted expression of disgust, watching Napoleon like he was a piece of human refuse better taken out with the trash.

 

“I need you to help me steal something,” Napoleon said.

 

“It's urgent?”

 

Napoleon considered the question. “More or less.”

 

There was silence over the line, and then Illya drew a sharp breath. “They’re blackmailing you.”

 

Napoleon laughed then, though it sounded more like he was choking. “Who would have known it was such a bad idea to be great at your job?”

 

Illya did not reply, and Napoleon’s hand reached out to press against the glass. “They want another ten years,” he said, a hint of hysteria slipping into his voice. “They have photos. Called it punishment for my crimes, for falling in love.”

 

The words slipped out of his mouth before he realized what he was confessing, and Napoleon froze. He stood, his anger instantly replaced by horror as silence reigned over the line.

 

Seconds passed.

 

“Tell me when and where,” Illya said at last, his voice tight. “I’ll be there.”

 

Napoleon closed his eyes, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. All of this was getting to him much more than he ever wanted. His overstep would be discussed another time, or preferably never discussed at all.

 

“Come to America,” Napoleon said, “I’ll wait for you.”

 

-

 

It took Illya three weeks before he could make it into the United States. In that time, Napoleon followed his orders, dismantled one arms trafficking ring, and stole two documents. The day before they were due to meet, the CIA tried to send him to Canada to see a man about a revolutionary piece of technology. Napoleon arrived, made contact with all the right people, and went right back over the border.

 

He made it to the safehouse an hour before the agreed time, but Illya was already there. They shared one kiss before Napoleon sat them both down to business, pulling out the folder of intel he’d gathered over the past month.

 

Over a tiny kitchen table in a ramshackle Hell’s Kitchen apartment, they planned revenge.

 

-

 

There were many conflicting opinions floating out in the world about the man known as Napoleon Solo. Some said he was smarmy and insincere, played his cards too openly and was too arrogant for his success to be anything more than luck. Others appreciated his good looks and charm, called him a man of taste, and said they preferred the way he used subtlety over force. But despite the competition over his reputation, there was usually one thing most people agreed on.

 

Napoleon Solo was great at stealing things.

 

(With Illya at his side, he was unstoppable.)

 

-

 

They burned the photos in Sander’s office, as well as the backups in the reserves, and destroyed the negatives in the lab filing room. When they finally made it to the old man's office, Napoleon almost begged Illya to have sex on top of Sander’s desk, just as a final fuck you to the bastard Napoleon hoped to never see again.

 

Instead, they drained a bottle of vintage cognac from Sander’s reserves over the ashes of CIA evidence. Then, with the guards drugged and unconscious outside, they trashed everything inside the room.

 

After smashing the first pieces of furniture, Napoleon had stood back and simply indulged in the sight of llya tearing apart the room with his bare hands. His lover’s rage, usually so carefully tamed beneath his calm exterior, was beautiful in its wildness and ferocity. Illya’s violence was a force of nature, and all of it revolved around Napoleon who stood untouched in the eye in the storm. As he witnessed the extent of Illya’s fury and his protectiveness, the frustration in Napoleon’s chest dimmed, and faded into something with a softer, warmer presence.

 

When they stood together in the ruined room, a pretty picture of their destructive energies laid out around them, Napoleon dived headfirst into his desire, and pulled Illya into an urgent, demanding kiss.

 

Later, inside their hotel room, Napoleon would let Illya fuck him into the mattress. Giddy from success and lust and alcohol, he thought of nothing but the man pressed against him. As Illya struck that perfect place inside, he moaned just like the wanton whore the CIA had labeled him to be, whimpering when Illya peppered his skin with hungry, open-mouthed kisses.

 

Afterwards, when the sweat was cooling on their skin, when pleasant exhaustion and something else unnamed left them both reluctant to move apart, Illya took Napoleon’s hand, and pressed his fingers to his lips in a reverent kiss.

 

It was all Napoleon could do to not grin like a fool at the whisper of Я люблю тебя.

 

_I love you._

 

-

 

It was never a good idea to begin with. But if Napoleon a man who always picked the smarter choice when offered with temptation the likes of Illya Kuryakin, he would never have known what it was like to return the love of a gentle Russian giant with too big a heart.

 

With their briefcase full of vital American intelligence, they absconded to Moscow.

 

Napoleon hadn’t been wrong when he said there were very few options available to a man with a skill set like his. Now that he had betrayed his own country in a spectacular display of insubordination and became internationally wanted for treason, his options were even more limited.

 

But the thing was, Illya also hadn’t been wrong when he said that Napoleon was a good agent, and that his superiors were reasonable men.

 

-

 

“You clearly work very well together,” Oleg said, “I see no reason in breaking up a good team.”

 

If Napoleon hadn’t known better, he could almost have said Oleg looked _shocked_ when he began to read through the folders Illya and Napoleon had delivered to his desk.

 

It wasn’t a development Napoleon could have imagined at age sixteen, when he lied to get into the army. Nor was it something he could have imagined at twenty-five, when he lied about being in love to a beautiful woman who would become his downfall. It wasn’t even something he could have pictured at thirty-five, when he lied and said he had hated working with the man he was sharing a drink with on a balcony in Rome.

 

“Just this once, Kuryakin, in light of the significant contribution you have just made to our motherland, I will let the fact of your desertion go.”

 

Illya looked toward him, and Napoleon recognized the slight upturn of his lips, thought about kissing them much later.

 

“And as for you, Mr. Solo.” Oleg looked up at him then, his expression unreadable, “I’m prepared to offer you a position working with the KGB.”

 

Napoleon tried not to let his feeling of victory show too obviously.

 

“Of course, as Kuryakin is the one who vouched for you, you should both understand one thing. If you should feel inclined to betray your loyalties again, Solo, it is Kuryakin who will take full responsibility.”

 

Factions, rivalries, nationalism, those ideas would have held more meaning to a fresh faced young boy, enlisting to fight for his country right at the tail end of the greatest war the world had ever seen. At forty, with the vision of a life with Illya before him, they meant nothing to a man worn from almost two decades of a life steeped in violence and duplicity. Illya, Illya was something completely different, something that couldn't be so easily dismissed or classified. Illya had left him presents in the secret spaces of CIA safe houses, had wrote him postcards from all over the world that never reached him until months or even years later, Illya looked at Napoleon at the sun and stars and kissed him like he was something irreplaceable.

 

He suddenly felt very stupid for not realizing that Illya had loved him back all along.

 

Napoleon would never ask Illya to betray his own country, but it didn't mean Napoleon couldn’t leave his own behind.

 

“I understand,” said Napoleon, his lips pulling into a smile. “And I look forward to our time together.”

 

This, for all intents and purposes, was the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from [Sinners](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TyMal7io41s) by Lauren Aquilina.


End file.
